How to survive an intercontinental flight.

Traveling overseas would be one of life’s greatest pleasures if it didn’t require the traveling overseas part. In my estimation we’re about a decade late on getting those transporter things that Star Trek promised us. Until that happens we will continue to fly for so many hours there and back that our fear of a crash occurring gets replaced by the thought that it might actually be merciful. So, here are a few helpful hints that might get you through it next time.

1. The wine will suck, deal with it and swill it down like a frat boy. The movie will be better, the food will be tastier, and even if it doesn’t make that fat-assed GOP district chair sitting next to you and telling you his plan to redistrict for a real permanent majority this time more interesting, you may get toasty enough to tell him what you really think. Let the games begin!

2. Eventually the baby will get tired and stop screaming. Sure it will start again in a bit, but if you adhere strictly to my first tip it will be your snoring that wakes that little walking talking Chuckie doll.

3. Be nice to your flight attendant. Always! He or she is key to achieving the primary goal as stated at the top. Remember, an eight ounce pour times four will get you to your goal much faster than a two ounce pour will. Besides, they will be much more inclined to put up with your pre-nap drunken bullshit if they remember that you were nice earlier. It’s important to invest wisely, and apologize sheepishly as you leave even if you don’t recall being a jerk. You were, trust me.

4. Make sure that your mp3 player of choice has plenty of Wilson Pickett loaded. This is not optional!

5. When offered the exit row, take it. I don’t care if you are a 97 year old quadriplegic amputee with a bad back and no ability to follow either written or oral instructions. The extra leg room is worth it. Besides, in the event that the emergency exit is needed you are all royally screwed anyway. Even if you aren’t and some young gym rat is sitting there, rule number one means he’ll probably be passed out and drooling on the bimbo sitting next to him anyway. Take the leg room. Sorry, you know what I mean.

*This post was written under strict adherence to Rule Number 1, but I swear by all that is holy that the walking, shrieking Chuckie doll exists. She’s out there somewhere. Pray she doesn’t find your plane.

Oh you two quit your complaining! At least you don’t have the problem of having your little feet swinging in the air because they don’t touch the ground. Every time we fly on one of these transcontinental gigs I end up with horribly swollen ankles and feet because there is no foot rest in coach, and we aren’t to the level of getting Biz or First on the press trip–not that I could reach those foot rests either. The woe of being short.